


My Funny (Infuriatingly Nerdy, Unfairly Beautiful, Fucking Smartass Of A) Valentine

by LaShaRa



Series: Snapshots [6]
Category: DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV), The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Cupcakes, First Kiss, Fluff, M/M, Multi, Valentine's Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-13
Updated: 2017-02-13
Packaged: 2018-09-24 03:09:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9697079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaShaRa/pseuds/LaShaRa
Summary: Mick’s expression of “whythefuckyouaskinghellyesyesplease” seems to clear matters up, because Len gives him a full blown smirk. Then, without breaking eye contact, he scoops a generous dollop of icing onto his index finger and slips it between his lips.





	

Valentine’s Day is coming up.

And normally, Mick Rory wouldn’t give a flying fuck. But this year, it’s different. This year, there’s a guy who lounges at the back of Mick’s junior chemistry class like he owns everyone in the room, a guy with eyes the colour of a long, unforgiving winter and short peppercorn curls and the most sarcastic drawl Mick’s ever heard, and Mick hasn’t been able to get him out of his head since the morning he walked in and called the teacher out for slacking on the first day. Mick’s no greenhorn; he’s never had been ashamed of telling people that he thinks they’re hot, thanks to which he’s made out countless times with girls and guys alike, but he’s never before looked at someone and wondered what would happen if he reached for their hand now and then, if he offered to drive them home after school, if he baked them a batch of the red velvet cupcakes his crazy maiden aunt used to present to her would-be suitors, like he does when he looks at Leonard Snart.

If he thinks about it too much he starts freaking the hell out, so he tries to focus on other things, like how many times he can flick his lighter open in a single hour before his English Lit teacher notices. It usually takes three tries, five before she sends him off to the guidance counselor (it’s only Tuesday; she doesn’t call the principal on him until Friday) and his subsequent frustration when he has to make do with no lighter until he can get to his car distracts him.

And then of course Len Snart has to come up to him and show him how to do it without getting caught, because he apparently likes English Lit and is sick and tired of the lesson coming to a screeching halt every time the teacher calls Mick out.

And Mick’s right back to thinking about those gorgeous eyes.

He wouldn’t say they’re friends. Sure, they exchange the odd comment and set of study notes, because if there’s one subject Mick loves, it’s chemistry, having deduced at an early age that its main purpose is to create chaos, and on good days, explosions, and he actually manages to lead the class from time to time. Len, however, isn’t too fond of it, despite being smart enough to kick Mick’s ass to the other end of the football field and back if he tried; he just doesn’t see the point of devoting himself to something he’ll never use. From the little snippets of information Len’s let slip now and then, he’s planning on being a lawyer, or an accountant, or an architect - something that involves swanky offices and buildings with glass fronts, anyway, and there’s not much scope for blowing stuff up there. It’s never easy to get these details out of Len, though – although he never shuts up on the day he sits with Mick in the cafeteria, an endless stream of nerd babble mixed with the occasional scathing comment or godawful pun pouring from his mouth, personal life is not something you ever discuss with Leonard Snart unless you want to come away with all your teeth intact. Come to think of it, no one but Mick gets too close to him anyway. 

Maybe the handholding and afterschool drives is a bad idea.

For someone he’s not friends with, Mick sure knows a hell of a lot about the guy.

One other thing he knows is that he’s never met anyone who eats worse than Len. If there’s ever anything on his lunch tray that edges towards the fruity/leafy edge of the colour spectrum, Len ignores it in favour of the junk food which is what the cafeteria offers most days anyway. He doesn’t skimp on pudding cups, and he’s been known to swipe Mick’s from time to time. Along with whatever sweets the other kids are stupid enough to carry in their pockets, although Mick sees most of those in the hands of his little sister Lisa when Len walks home with her after school.

(He may or may not have been doing a little stalking. A lot of stalking. He’s excused. They live in one of the worst neighbourhoods in Central and from what Mick overhears in the guidance counselor’s office their dad is one of the worst people in it. He’s just looking out for his…not-friend. Who will hopefully be more-than-his-friend, sometime when pigs start sprouting wings.)

The days edge into February and Mick finds himself zeroing in on Len every damn time he sees him, whether it’s in class or in the hallways or the cafeteria or the parking lot. Len doesn’t say anything when he does it either, even the times when Mick doesn’t have a crappy English assignment he supposedly needs help with, or a plan to go wheedle lollipops from the elementary school nurse again. He just smirks a little, raises one sharp eyebrow, and falls into step next to Mick. The only times he disappears is when he’s on his way to collect Lisa from the elementary school block and walk home, which Mick doesn’t really mind, considering that he now knows about five different routes to get to and from Len’s house. What he does mind, though, is watching all the other kids who eye Len furtively even when Mick’s looming next to him. It’s not just the girls, of which there are plenty; Len’s big eyes and pretty face get him far too many admiring looks from the alpha males of the student body than Mick’s comfortable with. True, Len’s never reciprocated the sidelong glances and attempts at flirtatious conversation. Actually, the last few weeks, if he isn’t with Mick he’s poring over something incomprehensible and wordy in the library or talking nineteen to the dozen to the history teacher who acts as the careers officer. But still. The guy’s fifteen. He’s bound to say yes to someone sometime, even if it’s just for the sake of releasing some of the stress he seems to be under lately, the little crease between his eyebrows that makes Mick want to burn something almost as much as watching Len’s groupies does.

Even in this crappy excuse for a high school, Len could do so much better than Mick.

But on the fourteenth of February Mick still finds himself making the drive from his neighbourhood to Len’s, watching the house fronts get more dilapidated and the streets get more unkept the further he goes. Len’s street, which he’s driven down a few times, is lined with narrow two story houses with dingy curtains across the windows and broken glass on the sidewalk. The driveway is empty – Len’s father’s beat-up car is nowhere in sight. Still, Mick drives to the end of the block and parks gingerly on the roadside before getting out and walking back to the house. Hopefully, the paper bag in his hands looks like takeout and not something that would get the cops called on him. He closes his other hand around the lighter in his pocket, holding onto it for support as he turns into the Snarts driveway.

From the outside, the house seems deserted. Mick stands on the doorstep and debates whether or not to knock. After a moment, he decides that it can’t hurt, since Len’s father doesn’t seem to be home, but no one answers the door. It’s Saturday; both Len and Lisa have to be home, since Len doesn’t have a weekend job and their father is certainly not the type to take them to the park or the mall. Mick shifts uneasily, glancing at the houses on either side and across the street. They all appear as deserted as Len’s house, but he can’t be sure, and something tells him that Len’s dad getting to know a guy carrying a paper bag had been here on Valentine’s is a bad idea. Looking back, the paper bag was a pretty bad idea too. Partly covering it with his jacket, Mick decides to try the back of the house.

To his surprise, there’s a tiny yard back there, surrounded by a high wooden fence, with a small yellow bike that looks like it might belong to Lisa tucked in a corner. What’s even more of a shock, however, is that the back door is wide open. Mick steps inside, his nerves starting to jangle. Len’s not the type of person to leave doors open, whether he’s in the house or not. “Len?” he calls once, voice low, ready to run like hell if it’s Snart senior who replies.

No one answers, though. Mick’s standing in a small and not very clean kitchen with a dim passage leading out of it. Mick steps carefully through the opening, one hand trailing along the wall in search of a light switch. It’s far too quiet for a neighbourhood this deep in Central.

His knee connects hard with something. There’s a loud yelp which has Mick cursing in fright, a whirl of movement, and a fist comes out of the darkness and connects with Mick’s jaw. It’s not a hard blow, but Mick has one hand on the bag in his jacket and he’s let go of the wall and he falls back into the kitchen, landing flat on his ass. He’s already scooting back towards the door as he looks up and then he has to freeze, because Len is standing in the passageway with his other fist in the air, staring at him with wide eyes.

Mick honestly doesn’t think he can screw this up any more than he has until he opens his mouth and the words, “What are you wearing?” tumble out of it in a voice that’s suddenly a little too hoarse for his liking.

It’s still a fair question though. Len’s in a checked blue suit that makes his eyes seem even more piercing than they are and is far nicer than anything Mick’s ever seen him in. His striped tie is loose, though and the white shirt he’s got under it is untucked and wide open at the collar; his hair is a little unruly. Watching how he lowers his fist and blinks, long eyelashes sweeping in and out of view – and isn’t that a beautiful sight – Mick’s suddenly certain that he’d got back from wherever he’d been and fallen asleep right there on the floor.

“What’re you doing here, Mick?” says Len, ignoring the question and rubbing his eyes as he moves into the kitchen. His voice is neutral, but that doesn’t mean anything with Len, who could probably murder a room full of people with a thumbtack and not break a sweat, if they pissed him off enough. He might have to work a little on his form, though; Mick’s jaw has already stopped throbbing. But Len’s ability to throw a punch is not what’s important right now, fucking focus, Mick. “I, um, had something I wanted to show you,” says Mick. “Chem stuff,” he adds, when Len quirks an eyebrow at him.

“Come on, Mick, you don’t need me for that, you aced the test yesterday.”

Len steps out into the yard and Mick follows him. “What’re you all dressed up for, anyway?”

“I had an interview.”

“An interview.” Len sits down against the fence, facing the house, and Mick sits down opposite him. “Where?”

“CNRI.” 

The name actually rings a bell with Mick. “Isn’t that the law firm in Starling that’s always on the news?” 

“Yeah.” Len crosses his legs. His trouser hems ride up, exposing the toes of his battered trainers. “They’re setting up a branch in Central, and Mr. Solomon’s on the committee. He told me I should apply for an internship.”

“That’s the history teach, ain’t it?” says Mick. “That’s why you’ve been memorizing the whole damn library the last few weeks. You coulda told me, Lenny, I could’ve helped.”

Len smiles a little lopsidedly, but not in a way that suggests he’s about to ask how the hell Mick, who’s greatest specialty is setting things on fire, could help the guy with the near perfect GPA. “You hate research, Mick. And besides, you’ve kept the groupies from mobbing me, which is one thing I was having trouble doing myself.”

Ah. So he’s noticed them, then. Mick clenches his hands, then winces as the paper bag crackles ominously inside his jacket. Len, of course, notices at once. His stance gets a little more rigid. “Mick, what’s that?”

Mick sighs and prepares himself for the worst. At least he got to see Lenny all dressed up. That’s a better last sight than most people get. “I said I had something to show you.” He pulls out the paper bag and holds it towards Len, who looks from Mick to the bag a couple of times before slowly reaching for it. 

Mick kind of wishes he has a camera for the moment when Len pulls the small red box out of the bag. His expression is a mixture of terror, suspicion, curiosity,self-conciousness, and terror again, and it’s more intense than all the other expressions Mick’s ever seen him wear put together. “Mick, what is this?”

“Okay, so maybe I lied a little, but baking is technically chemistry, if you get creative about it,” Mick says, a lot more confidently than he feels. His hand’s back in his pocket, gripping his lighter so tightly that it might crack if he’s not careful.

Len’s expression goes blank again. He lifts the lid of the box and stares at the contents and Mick tries very hard not to break his lighter.

There are six red velvet cupcakes in the box, one for each month that’s passed since a beautiful smartass with wintry eyes got sat next to Mick on a September morning, each one topped with coffee butter frosting and thick red sprinkles and laced with just a touch of brandy, courtesy of his aunt’s insistence that everything tasted better if it helped you let loose a little. He thinks they’ve turned out all right; they better have, given that he’d ruined the first two batches he’d made yesterday after school out of sheer nerves. They’re tangy and perfectly iced and in pleated red cases he’d gotten some funny looks for buying and there’s no way someone as smart as Len is going to miss what they mean.

There’s also a very good chance Mick may not survive the next ten seconds.

But Len doesn’t move. Ten seconds tick by, then twenty, and Len’s eyes remain fixed on the box. When two minutes have passed, Mick can’t take the suspense; he gets to his feet, intending to stretch his legs, but a part of him wants to get the hell out of there, because he’d anticipated Len getting mad, but he hadn’t thought about what he’d do if Len simply ignored what Mick was trying to tell him, and he can’t fucking believe such an obvious outcome didn’t occur to him till now – 

Len’s hand latches onto his wrist. 

Mick looks down. Len’s holding a cupcake in his other hand. As Mick watches, he raises it to his mouth and bites down, and Mick actually has to close his eyes for a moment, because he feels like he did when he saw Len blinking himself out of sleep and he can’t afford to feel like that now. When he opens his eyes again, Len’s looking up at him, his eyes wide, and for a second Mick panics, because maybe he missed something, maybe there’s something Len’s allergic to and Mick’s handed it to him in a pleated wrapper, maybe Len just really hates the taste of red velvet and now Mick’s lost the only friend he has.

It’s as he reaches this conclusion that Len smiles. Mick’s barely hanging on to conscious thought as it is, and that smile is the end of him. Len’s white teeth jut out just the slightest bit, there’s a smear of icing on his top lip, the corners of his eyes are crinkled and his long throat arches in just the right way as he looks up at Mick, and Mick’s brain doesn’t even get in a “Hey, this is a really stupid idea” before he swoops down and kisses Len on the lips.

He’s already there when he realizes that maybe he should have asked first, but then Len starts kissing back, and oh. Oh.

He tastes of coffee and brandy and sugar and something else, something warm and utterly delicious that goes straight to Mick’s head, and he kisses like it’s the last time he’ll ever kiss anybody. Mick tilts Len’s head a little between his hands and loses himself in Len’s mouth, until he feels one of Len’s hands on his chest, pressing insistently. He pulls back, panting a little, and oh, flushed with pleasure is such an amazing look on Len. “We can’t do this here,” Len breathes, his eyes a little hazy as they lock onto Mick’s. The cupcake is a crushed mess in his fist, but Mick doesn’t mind in the slightest. “My dad might come back. Did you bring your truck?”

“Down the block.” Mick feels the need to limit himself to short sentences at the moment.

“Then let’s go.”

Mick catches sight of the yellow bike over his shoulder. “Where’s your sister?” he asks, thinking that maybe he should have checked on her whereabouts before he started kissing her brother’s face off in full view of the upstairs windows.

Len gets to his feet with the box in his hands, setting the remains of the cupcake inside. “She’s at a sleepover. I try and get her to go to those as often as possible.” Then he seems to registers the fact that Mick’s still sitting on the ground and wavers. “You…do want...this…right?”

Mick’s expression of “whythefuckyouaskinghellyesyesplease” seems to clear matters up, because Len gives him a full blown smirk. Then, without breaking eye contact, he scoops a generous dollop of icing onto his index finger and slips it between his lips.

Mick was wrong. Len is not fifteen. He is a god of seduction with all the right moves and Mick will go happily where he leads. 

He may be exaggerating slightly and also horribly mangling Mr. Solomon’s history lesson on Greek mythology, but he doesn’t care. Because That Kiss.

Len grins like he knows exactly what Mick’s thinking.

Happy Valentine’s Day indeed.

**Author's Note:**

> Because I live vicariously through ColdWave. And because everyone deserves to experience the beauty that is Leonard Snart eating a cupcake. And because I love romantic!Mick. Happy Valentine’s Day, everyone!


End file.
